The Perfect Girlfriend

by Karen Hamilton

  I know his background inside out: the childhood holidays in Marbella, Nice, Verbier and Whistler; tennis, horse-riding and cricket lessons; the lack of approval from his father when Nate chose to pursue his dream of becoming a pilot instead of following in his footsteps as an investment banker.

  His younger sister admires him, but she doesn’t like me.

  From social media photos, I can see that he could do with a haircut; his blond curls almost touch his collar.

  But what I know, most of all, is that deep down he still has feelings for me. Nate just suffered a temporary fear of commitment. Although it was crushing at the time, I now understand things a little better. So, when the perfect time comes to disclose that I now work for the airline too – when he appreciates the lengths I’ve gone to, just to save us – everything will fall into place.

  Until then, I have to be patient. It’s difficult, though. Whenever I see a fresh image of him, I find it hard to eat for days afterwards.

  My phone alarm reminds me that it’s time to leave. I’ve had to train myself to do that, because the thing I’ve realized is that you get away with something once. Then twice. Then, before you know it, you are taking bigger risks. Time passes in a daze and gets cut too fine. I check to see whether Nate’s flight from Chicago has landed. It has – five minutes early. I rush to my bag, and fumble. I wrap my apple core inside a tissue and pull out a packet of mini chocolate muffins. Nate’s favourite. It’s a habit I can’t break – adding his preferences to my own food shopping. I open the freezer door, causing white light to illuminate the wall. I shove the packet towards the back, behind the meat that I know he will never defrost and the peas he never bothers with. I’d love to leave them somewhere more obvious, like by the coffee machine, but I can’t, so this will have to do. When he finds them, hopefully he will take a moment to think of me. My shopping lists were always full of food he loved. I never forgot anything.

  I retrace my steps to the bedroom and yank my uniform off the hangers which swing, then clatter, as they hit the back of the wardrobe. Returning to the living room, I take down the photo before reluctantly replacing it in my bag. I put on my ballet pumps and switch off the side lamp. The multicoloured fish stare at me as they complete their lengths. One, in particular, watches, mouth gaping. It is ugly. Nate named it Rainbow. I have always hated it.

  I swallow hard. I don’t want to go. This place is like quicksand, it sucks me in.

  I pick up my bag and leave, closing the door quietly behind me, before returning to the station to catch the train to my shoebox, postage stamp, doll’s house of a flat in Reading. I can’t call it home because being there is like hanging out in the departure lounge of life. Waiting, always waiting, until the gate to my proper life reopens.

  2

  I lie in bed and stretch. Thank God it’s the weekend. Although the airline is a twenty-four-hour operation, training is structured around a normal working week. Tonight, I plan to attend a children’s charity fund-raising event, at a luxurious Bournemouth hotel. It’s an auction, with a seafood buffet and unreserved seating, and I’m looking forward to it, despite the lack of a formal invitation. It doesn’t matter, as I’ve discovered at similar events; as long as I look and dress the part and don’t draw unnecessary attention to myself (of course), people rarely question my presence and, with fund-raisers, surely it stands to reason that the more attendees, the better.

  I get up, shower, change and press the button on the coffee machine. I love the sound and smell of beans grinding. If I close my eyes, for a second or two each day, I can pretend I’m at home. It’s the little things that keep me going. Bitterness brushes my tongue as I sip my espresso. In between mouthfuls, I glance at my tablet. I scroll. Bella, the organizer of tonight’s event, always posts plenty of photos of past events. She is in most of them, grinning, not a highlighted hair out of place, and her jewellery, usually gold or sapphires, looks expensive, yet not ostentatious. Faultless, as always. Bella excels at raising money for good causes, making herself look like a real-life Good Samaritan without having to dirty her hands. Anyone can organize a party and swan around drinking champagne, however if you really, truly meant to do good, you’d drink cheap wine and volunteer for something unpopular. But Bella’s main life skill is being fantastic at making herself shine.

  My phone vibrates. A text.

  My flatmate decided to throw a party tonight. If you can’t beat them . . . :) Fancy it? I’ll invite others off the course too. Amy x

  I am torn. The more friends I make within the airline, the better things will be for me. And I do need friends. There is hardly anyone left from my old life – apart from those I keep in touch with on social media and a handful of dropouts from my film extra days – thanks to putting my life on hold for Nate Goldsmith. Being near Bella is like picking at a scab. But . . . the closer I am to her world, the more of her luck and fortune is bound to rub off. I stare at my phone, undecided, listening to the rain trickling down the gutters outside the window.

  A fortnight after Nate’s bombshell, he’d stood over me whilst I packed my belongings.

  ‘I’ve paid six months’ rent on a super place in Reading. As a gift. I’ll even drive you there and help you sort out everything you need in order to settle.’

  ‘Why Reading?’

  ‘I lived there briefly during my training and it’s a fantastic place for a new start. Full of life.’

  ‘Really?’

  He wouldn’t let it drop, which, given how tight he could be financially, was a hurtful indication of how keen he was to bin me. At least it had stopped him banging on about me moving back to my delusional mother’s. The flat was basic, clean and contained all the essentials to lead a bland, functional life. I had surveyed the living room, in which we both stood rigid, in awkward silence. I think he was waiting for me to thank him.

  ‘Goodbye, Elizabeth.’

  Elizabeth, indeed, for fuck’s sake! What had happened to Lily, babe, darling, sweetheart? He kissed me on the forehead and let himself out, shutting the door quietly behind him. Silence echoed. I gazed out the window, through a blur of raindrops, and watched as his tail lights disappeared, bubbling with fresh rage and humiliation. I loved him and yet I’d been unable to stop him making the biggest mistake of his life. He was mine. As I sat there – mentally deflating on the hard-backed sofa – it was then that my Plan of Action had been born. Elizabeth/Lily was disappearing into her cocoon and waiting to emerge as Juliette – my middle name – to complete a metamorphosis into a social butterfly.

  Hmm. So now . . . Amy? Bella? Bella? Amy? Eeny, meeny . . . I reach down under the coffee table for my handbag, fumble around for my purse and take out a coin. I flip it. Heads Bella, tails Amy. The coin wobbles on the table and settles on tails. Bella has lost out to someone else, on this occasion. I message Amy back: Love to come xxx.

  She sends me her address. The only problem now is that it leaves me with an entire day to fill. I don’t have to bother with my appearance as much, now that I am only going to a small house party. It’s so grey, it’s almost dark. I pace the tiny room. Outside, I can see car lights illuminate stabbing rain in their beams. I should learn to drive. Then, I could head over to Richmond right now. I could sit outside Nate’s. He wouldn’t even know I was there. It would be so comforting to be near him. I shower, pull on some jeans and a black jumper, grab my trainers and coat, then speed-walk to the station.

  Rain, it turns out, is a serious godsend. Who’d have thought, after so many soggy summers, that I would find it such a luxury to hide beneath a hood loitering anonymously in shop doorways and alleyways. Mother Nature is on my side. During this miserable late January day, people are distracted, heads down, shoulders hunched, umbrellas up. Cartwheeling water sludges from car tyres. No one takes any notice of me.

  Nate’s living-room lights are on. He’ll most likely be watching the latest box set or film on Netflix. I miss him. Not for the first time, I regret my behaviour and capitulation. I almost have a mo
ment of weakness as the urge to dash over the street and kick down his door threatens to overwhelm me. Yet, I must play by the rules, otherwise he won’t appreciate me. Second time around, things will be on my terms.

  Amy’s flat is above a hair salon. Just as well, because if she had proper neighbours below they’d have called the police by now. Ibiza dance-style music blares out. I press the buzzer, but then realize the door is open, so I let myself in. I walk upstairs and through the door. Amy is laughing, her head thrown back, clutching a bottle of beer. I stand still for a moment. She spots me and walks over, kissing me once on each cheek.

  ‘Come in! So glad you could come. That’s my flatmate, Hannah,’ she points to a woman in the far corner of the room, ‘and you already know some of the others . . . Oliver, Gabrielle . . .’

  The rest of Amy’s friends’ names only briefly register in my mind: Lucy, Ben, Michelle . . . I accept a bottle of beer, even though I can’t stand drinking out of bottles. I take sips and make polite chit-chat with Oliver, which is hard work as he is one of the quietest people on our course. I am rescued by Amy, who seems determined to let her hair down tonight. We dance. Amy flirts. The evening is pleasant enough. I have read Amy wrong. I didn’t think she’d be of much use to me, but now I intend to keep her close and get to know her better. I throw myself into the moment. I laugh a lot. Genuinely. I haven’t had so much fun since . . . well, I can’t remember exactly. But it will have been with Nate. Obviously.

  Nearly seven months ago, Nate had appeared in a chapter of my life like a scene from a romantic novel. As I’d taken my gaze away from my computer screen at the hotel reception desk – a work smile fixed firmly in place – I’d struggled not to gasp out loud. The man in front of me looked as though he had absorbed the best bits of life and shrugged off anything unpleasant or sad. Blond curls waved from beneath his hat, and his skin was gently tanned. Behind him, matching uniformed crew followed in his wake, footsteps tip-tapping on the marble floor.

  ‘I believe you have last-minute reservations for us? We’ve ended up with an unscheduled night-stop after engine trouble forced us to return to Heathrow.’

  Until that moment, the most exciting event in the eight months I’d worked at the Airport Inn had been a minor celebrity smuggling two women into his room, neither of whom were his wife.

  ‘Are you working this evening?’ Nate asked when I handed him his key card – I’d left his room allocation till last.

  ‘I finish at eight,’ I’d replied, feeling a dormant tingle of anticipation begin to reawaken.

  ‘Fancy showing us the best bars nearby?’

  ‘Of course.’

  That night, I too became a guest at the hotel. It was inevitable. From the moment our eyes had locked, I’d set out to dazzle him.

  Six weeks later, I moved into Nate’s flat . . .

  ‘Juliette?’

  ‘Sorry, Amy, miles away.’

  ‘Do you want to crash on the sofa here?’

  I scan the room, surprised to see only a few people left. I’d been vaguely aware of people saying goodbye and Oliver offering me a lift but I hadn’t been ready to leave. Amy is going to make a good social contact.

  I slide out my phone from my bag. ‘It’s fine, thanks. I need to get back.’

  During the taxi ride, I check out the photos of Bella’s event on Twitter. Another success for Beautiful Bella, going by the stream of complimentary comments. Motorway lights fade and highlight her. She looks stunning, in an ice queen way. Pearls – no doubt real – choke her neck. Her long blonde hair is elegantly swept up. In every image, she is smiling, surrounded by the local great and the good. I trace my forefinger around her outline on the screen, wishing I could erase her as easily as deleting an image.

  Back home, I pace.

  As I mull things over, I reassure myself that I made the right decision to shun Bella tonight. Not that I was going to approach her on this occasion; I was merely going to observe. Practice makes perfect. When I do decide the time is right to confront Bella, it will be planned to the last detail.

  Revenge is a dish best served cold, and mine is going to be frozen.

  3

  The remaining five weeks of the course keep me distracted. Although I still keep a close eye on Bella online and visit Nate’s flat at least once a week when he’s away, I spend a lot of time with Amy. She likes to study together. That isn’t really my kind of thing, but it does mean she likes and relies on me. Her flatmate, Hannah, is long-haul crew for a different airline and Amy is the type of person who isn’t comfortable with her own company. She is the sixth of seven children.

  Finally, after endless jumps down slides, donning smoke hoods and entering smoke-filled chambers to fight pretend fires, resuscitating dolls, handcuffing each other, bandaging colleagues, ridiculous amounts of role play, aircraft visits to the hangar, learning how to lift a suitcase into a car boot without damaging your back and, the worst of it, listening to Brian and Dawn going on and on and on . . . after all that, our ‘Wings Day’ is here. It feels like good timing as signs of spring are beginning to show: daffodils, thinner coats, slightly longer days, fresh beginnings.

  We all shake hands with a manager who is apparently ‘very important’, according to Brian, and thank him as he hands us a cheap-looking gold badge. We pin it on our jackets, above our name badges, and grin. We all grin some more as our photos are taken. Not only am I moving on to the next stage of my POA, it also means no more Brian. Next Tuesday, I am off to Mumbai. Everyone on the course has been rostered a long-haul flight to allow more time for in-flight training. Amy is going to Dallas. In a nearby pub, with too-bright lighting and dark patterned carpets, no doubt hiding all sorts of stains, we all celebrate with glasses of prosecco.

  ‘Cheers!’ says Amy.

  We clink glasses.

  ‘Cheers!’ I echo.

  Amy takes a large sip. ‘I’m nervous about my first trip, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  She looks surprised.

  I feel secure because I’ve checked Nate’s schedule and he is rostered a Nairobi on Monday. Our work paths do not cross, for now. Although Nate had de-friended me, un-followed me, de-bloody-everythinged-me, he hasn’t changed his passwords. In fairness, he isn’t aware that I know them. However, he’s left me with this as my only option to keep abreast of the situation for the time being. Social media has become my essential tool. Amy knows a bit about ‘Nick’ but not his real identity or occupation, simply that we are on a relationship break. Amy is the perfect confidante: scathing enough about ‘Nick’ to be supportive, but not so much so that I feel compelled to leap to his defence. I had to share something. It’s how friendships work: you share secrets.

  My phone rings. It’s such an unusual occurrence that I nearly spill my drink. Auntie Barbara. Her name illuminates my screen. It’s a short conversation. I won’t be going to Mumbai on Tuesday after all.

  My mother is dead.

  My childhood home is situated in the south, just outside the market town of Dorchester, nestled in a small village. So many people say to me, ‘Oh, Dorset, I love Dorset, so beautiful,’ then mention the sea. Sweet Pea Cottage is in the middle of nowhere and the coast is not in sight. Several farms dot the immediate area and on the rare occasions I think of my old home, I picture the oak tree at the heart of the village surrounded by flint-stoned houses and thatched cottages. Public walkways weave through the nearby hills and are ever-popular with ramblers and dog walkers.

  My father shows up at the funeral, which provides a small distraction. Whilst The Beatles blast out ‘In My Life’, I study the old man in the opposite aisle and marry him up with my younger memories. I’d been ten when he left for the final time. He had smoked a pipe; I remember the smell more than I remember him. An ache swells in my throat as an image of him as a badly disguised Santa thrusts to the forefront of my thoughts. His wild, curly brown hair wouldn’t be tamed beneath the small, white-bobbled red hat. I swallow hard.

  This is only t
he second funeral I’ve ever attended, and I’m not sure I see the point of public mass misery. If someone’s gone, they’re gone. Initially, I was surprised at the large congregation, but soon realized that it was for Barbara’s sake. People appear genuinely fond of her. Whilst waiting for proceedings to begin, she whispers snippets of church history to those in the aisle in front; hints of pride are evident in her voice, despite her grief. I half-listen, as it is preferable to the aimless, silent waiting.

  ‘. . . originally thirteenth century, you know. Hundreds of years of gatherings. Imagine! All those people. In 1838 a disapproving parson put a stop to the custom of giving out bread, mince pies and ale on the sixth of January, Old Christmas Day . . .’

  A hush indicates that proceedings are to begin.

  ‘. . . and so we gather to celebrate the life of Amelia . . .’

  I stand up. Pick up a hymn book. Sit down. My mother would be furious. She is going to come back and haunt Barbara for having her buried in a church. Barbara said that, as Amelia had always got her own way, it was now her turn to make the decisions. Beside me, her shoulders heave. Her blonde, grey-streaked hair is neatly pinned into a bun. She is head-to-toe in black, broken only by a silver chain and cross. I am wearing black too, but only because it is the dominant colour in my wardrobe. I pat her on the arm but quickly remove my hand in case she tries to take hold of it.

  The vicar stops talking. It is over.

  I follow Barbara to the door and stand alongside her, nodding and giving thanks for all the words of sympathy. Every now and then, I remember to dab my eyes with a tissue – however, the ache in my throat is genuine. I will myself not to give in to the threat of tears because, if I let myself cry, then I don’t think I’ll be able to hold it together. Broken sentences float around me.

  My father shuffles into focus.

  ‘Why are you here?’ I ask.

  ‘We can talk at Barbara’s.’

  Over egg and cress sandwiches – white, with the crusts cut off – and strong cups of tea, my father and I update our memories of each other. He carries all the classic hallmarks of ageing: a mix of white hair, glasses, wrinkles and a paunch, finished off with an aggressive cough. Pipe smoke clings to his clothes.